


It Won't Be a Stylish Marriage; I Can't Afford a Carriage

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Don't get excited- nothing really happens, Gen, M/M, Post-Final Problem, So sweet you could vom, gen with a creamy slash center
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary's death, and Holmes' 'death', Watson has a little problem with his equilibrium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Won't Be a Stylish Marriage; I Can't Afford a Carriage

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes, and this school has nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. Title comes from Daisy Bell (Bicycle Built For Two), written by Henry Dacre.

It was not long after the death of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that I suffered a second loss, that of my wife, Mary. Though I am of a sociable disposition, and enjoy a wide variety of acquaintances and friendships, I do not easily form intimate attachments; these were the two that had defined my life. Holmes' death had shaken me deeply and continued to affect me, but with the added sorrow of Mary's death, I felt suddenly and undeniably unmoored. Somewhat fancifully came to me the image of a globe relieved of its poles, devoid of both direction and action, a listless sphere alone in space.  
Perhaps seeing him as something of a living reminder of my time with Holmes, I found myself looking forward to my contact with Inspector Lestrade. Our interactions were not infrequent, owing to my occasional assistance to Scotland Yard, but constrained by the very duties that brought us together. In this context, we were less men and more living utensils of our respective functions. Still, I sometimes managed to slip a casual word into our professional talk, and he, for his part, responded in a companionable, if somewhat bemused, manner. Often, our conversation would turn to Holmes, though it seemed to me that Lestrade did not know quite how to speak of him, and I imagine that it was just as plain to Lestrade that I was made equally unsure by the depth of my loss. Still, almost compulsively, one or the other of us would occasionally be moved to speak his name. Even in death, Holmes was able to command the room.  
One evening, relishing neither the prospect of spending yet more time at my club nor that of returning to my empty house, I asked Lestrade if he might dine with me. He was silent for what seemed like a very long moment, and I feared that I had acted rashly and perhaps inappropriately, but he merely responded that, yes, he would, once he had dealt with one or two pending matters. I, myself, had a few loose ends to tie up, and it was agreed that we would meet again, in an hour or so.  
The hour came, and we spent the rest of the evening in pleasant, if subdued, talk about professional matters. Perhaps self-consciously, neither of us mentioned Holmes, or the death of my wife. I knew so little of Lestrade's life outside of Scotland Yard that I was not sure how to approach any matter pertaining to it. Had I been Holmes, I would have certainly divined all there was to know about the man purely from superficial details. Lacking such insight, though, I could only wonder, and in my wondering, find that I wanted answers to my questions, and didn't mind waiting for them.  
The meal finished, I asked Lestrade if he would like to join me in my home for an after-dinner drink. This time, he responded quickly and without equivocation. The night was chilly, and inky darkness seeped from any place untouched by street lamp; by the time we reached my home, I knew without asking that Lestrade craved warmth and light as much as I did.  
Thus, we passed more time than I'm sure either of us intended, comforted by firelight and brandy. Warmed within and without, it was easier to speak, to ask the questions I'd composed earlier. Now, it seemed absurd to me that I had found such simple and friendly inquiries to be the height of imposition. Lestrade, for his part, showed no reticence or discomfort, and I saw in him, for the first time, an easiness at odds with his pride and tenacity.  
Too soon, it was time for him to take his leave. As he began to collect his things, shaking off the drowsiness engendered by heat and spirits, I felt a strange coldness, stark against the warmth of good company. I walked with him to the vestibule, and there, the two of us lingered, silent and still, as though unaware of each other. Then, Lestrade moved, bringing up one gloved hand, and holding it between us, as though shielding a candle's flame. After a moment, he let his hand fall to my arm, the weight of it both a shock and a comfort. Perhaps succumbing to drowsiness, myself, I let my eyes close. Lestrade breathed out, audibly but softly, and I felt his hand move from my arm to my shoulder. Upon opening my eyes, I experienced a moment of disorientation: lit only by the light coming in from the street, the features I beheld were as sharp as those of Sherlock Holmes, yet the stature of the person who possessed them was closer to that of Mary. Yet, I knew that both Holmes and Mary were gone, and though I mourned their absence, for once, my loneliness and uncertainty were somewhat mitigated. Though I had lost my twin poles, the two who had made up my axis, I found, as I moved closer to Lestrade, and he to me, that I was still able to spin.


End file.
